


saturn's rings

by Authoress



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, M/M, did you ever wonder what would happen once yuuri won the grand prix final?, where do you think viktor goes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authoress/pseuds/Authoress
Summary: It’s over, but Yuuri doesn’t feel that way at all.(companion to wayward satellite)





	

**Author's Note:**

> if you aren't listening to [**THIS SONG** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA&app=desktop) while reading my fic, you are missing out on at least half of the atmosphere intended.

 

 _You taught me the courage of stars before you left._  
_How light carries on endlessly, even after death._  
_With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite._  
_How rare and beautiful it is to even exist._

 _\--Saturn_ , Sleeping At Last

 

—He’s surrounded by light.

The flashing of cameras, glare of the fluorescent lights harsh against the ice, scraped up as it was, even the glint of the sequins on his uniform, leaving spots in his vision when he blinks. He’s not out of breath anymore, nor is he on skates. He’s standing on the winners’ podium, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, Yuri beside him, and he’s being crowned the prince on ice, the winner of the Grand Prix Final.

It’s over.

Yuuri’s eyes are wet, obviously. He thinks Yuri’s must be, too, the proud little thing. But Yuri keeps his chin out and his head held high, so Yuuri does too. He raises his hands, victorious, and the rumble of the crowd crescendos in a roar. He scans the faces and cameras for him. Despite the masses, it’s not a long search. There’s something about silver that’s just never been able to leave his mind, always there on the edge of his awareness, since he saw him dance for the first time.

Viktor smiles, small and tilted. It’s a smug look, so like him to look that way. To any onlooker, it’s obvious why he’s so satisfied—it was his program that won the Grand Prix, after all. He’s got a career in coaching once he peaks, if he even decides to go back at all. His future is secure.

But Yuuri knows better. He knows the angle of Viktor's eyebrows, the hard glint in his eyes, and he knows that particular curl of his mouth. It’s Viktor’s pride, yes, but it’s his pride in Yuuri, not in his own performance. He’s proud of Yuuri.

The knowledge fills Yuuri, from his curling toes to his churning stomach, to the fullness in his heart, the weight of pride and acknowledgement and victory. _This_ is why he skates. The feeling of his skates biting the ice, the strength of his muscles, and this.

It’s over, but Yuuri doesn’t feel that way at all.

It’s impossible to win a competition and not get swept up in reporters and cameras, so Yuuri doesn’t try to fight it. With a lens shoved in his face, it’s a bit harder to remember the way Viktor had looked in that crowd, the almost imperceptible nod he had given Yuuri, but Yuuri manages. He makes sure to give special attention to the reporters from his hometown, and to thank them for his support. He poses for photographers and accepts congratulations from other competitors. If he’s honest, though, he’s only looking for one person to talk to.

“Ah, Yurio,” he says.

Yuri Plisetsky is not the man he’s looking for. But he’ll do for now.

“I told you to quit calling me that,” Yuri grumbles, but it’s only half-hearted. He may be disappointed, but his debut earned him second place. That’s nothing to be sour about, and he knows it. “Good job, I guess,” he says, which is about as close as Yuuri is going to get to congratulations from him, anyway.

Yuuri smiles. “Do you kn—”

“Do I look like a walking Russian-detector to you?” Yuri scoffs. “Do you think if you find one of us, you’ll automatically find the other? What makes you think he would even come talk to me?”

“Because you know him better than I do,” Yuuri says. “And he cares about you deeply.”

Yuri, despite himself, is mollified by the assertion that Viktor cares about him. “I don’t,” Yuri says. “Know him, I mean. Better than you.”

“You’ve known him for years and trained with him,” Yuuri points out. “That counts for something.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t—” Yuri bites his lip. “Whatever. He’s probably taking a break from the press outside or something. Whatever. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

Yuuri resists the urge to put a hand on Yuri’s shoulder only because he knows it will piss him off. “Thank you,” he says, and means it.

“Ugh, gross,” Yuri says. “Don’t look so content. I’m still unsatisfied, you know? I’ll be there next year to snatch your crown. And follow me back on Instagram, will you? You’re such a geezer.”

Yuuri laughs quietly and holds up his hands in defeat. Yuri’s pouting, his cheeks puffed up, but he doesn’t look unhappy. It’s just the light of desire in his eyes, a hunger that will make him a real competitor next year. Those who have tasted defeat always come back stronger than those who sit pretty atop their throne. Yuuri knows that the best of anyone.

“I’ll see you around,” he says. Yuri waves a hand and turns to one of the skaters on his team, going off in rapid-fire Russian. Yuuri takes that as his cue to leave.

He can’t slip out as easily as he slipped into the venue, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Yuuri waves off concern, saying he just needs a little fresh air. Whispers and cameraphones follow him, but Yuuri isn’t trying to hide his escape. He just needs to see him. That’s all.

Yuuri feels silly once he finally gets outside and realizes that he’s still in his costume. It’s only early spring and it’s still cold enough for his breath to form little clouds when he exhales. He wraps his arms around himself in order to not smack himself in the face. There was more than one entrance and exit to the rink. How the hell was he supposed to find him?

“Oh?” Viktor says. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri turns, shivering a little. Viktor is leaning against the side of the rink in the shadows, away from prying eyes and ears. He steps into the light of the streetlamp when he recognizes Yuuri, forehead creased in concern.

“What are you doing outside without your jacket?” Viktor tuts. “Did I raise an idiot? You’ll catch cold and get sick; that’s no good. You still have so many interviews and you’ll look disgusting if you’re snotting everywhere. Where is your sense, dearest?”

He shrugs off his own jacket before Yuuri can even open his mouth to protest. “Honestly,” Viktor says, slinging the jacket around Yuuri’s shoulders and pulling it close at his chin.

Yuuri reaches up to take the jacket lapels from Viktor. Their hands brush. Viktor’s are warm. The jacket, too, is warm from lingering body heat. It smells like cinnamon and something musky and distinctly Viktor. Yuuri’s afraid he might melt into it.

“What am I going to do with you?” Viktor asks, voice low. He’s still in Yuuri’s space, fending off the cold.

“I just wanted to see you,” Yuuri says.

Ah, perhaps that was a little honest. Yuuri can feel his cheeks warm.

“We don’t have to do critiques until tomorrow,” Viktor says.

“No, ah, I—” Yuuri says. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Oh,” Viktor says.

There’s a beat of silence between them. Yuuri buries his face in the jacket, as if its comfort could ward off the sense of…whatever this was. It was rising in Yuuri’s already full heart, threatening to choke him. It’s in the color of Viktor’s eyelashes and the clouds of exhalation mingling between them. It’s in the just slightly too-close distance between them and the heaviness of Viktor’s jacket on his shoulders.

If he just acted on this feeling, maybe it would leave him alone. If he just did something wild, or impulsive, or loud, or powerful. Yuuri doesn’t know what this feeling wants from him, but it’s invested in the man in front of him now more than ever before.

“Viktor—”

“Yuuri, I—”

Another pause. They both laugh. The tension defuses a little.

“After you,” Viktor says.

“No, no…I insist,” Yuuri says.

“Ah, alright,” Viktor says. His hands twitch at his sides, slide into his pockets, slide out. He reaches forward, takes Yuuri by the shoulders. His hands slide up and down against Yuuri’s arms, almost like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing.

Viktor takes a breath. “Dearest, I just want to say…”

Yuuri holds his breath. He can’t tear his eyes from Viktor’s.

Viktor exhales. “…You were magnificent. I wanted to…introduce you to some people who can help you more with your career. I have connections, of course. When I go back to Russia, I want you to be set.”

The feelings cracks. Yuuri blinks a couple times and surfaces, like waking from a dream. When Viktor goes back to Russia? But…

“You’re going to keep skating, then?” Yuuri asks, voice rough.

Viktor shrugs one shoulder and winks. “Gotta keep them guessing. I’ll train with Yakov and if it works out, I’ll see you again in the rink.”

“Ah, that’s…good to hear,” Yuuri says. “Congratulations.”

_But…_

“Come on now, don’t congratulate me,” Viktor huffs. “You’re the real victor tonight, act like it! Have a little confidence in yourself!”

Yuuri laughs and scratches at his chin. “I’m not used to being so immodest…”

_But you…_

“Oh, right,” Viktor says. “What did you want to tell me?”

That feeling flickers in Yuuri’s heart, but it lies low. It’s not accessible and when he reaches for it, Yuuri finds it won’t come any closer. His confidence is gone. The moment is gone.

“Ah, that,” Yuuri says. “I thought it might be best to…get your email.”

“My email?” Viktor asks.

“International call rates, and all that,” Yuuri says. “It’s the cheapest way to get in touch, isn’t it? If you’re there…and I’m here.”

“Mm,” Viktor agrees. “Yes, that’s—that’s smart.” He pulls out his phone. Yuuri follows suit.

Yuuri’s fingers fumble over the keyboard as he types his email into Viktor’s phone. Their heads are pressed so close together that Viktor’s bangs tickle Yuuri’s forehead. Viktor’s face is close enough that Yuuri’s eyes cross when he tries to look at him. When Viktor hands him his phone back, Yuuri notes the addition of a heart emoji next to Viktor’s name in his phone. He looks at it longer than is strictly necessary.

“It’s funny,” Viktor says. “When I was training you, I never even thought to get your email. Now here we are, trading phones like strangers. Isn’t it funny how the world works out?”

Yuuri doesn’t say, _I never thought about you leaving_. He doesn’t say, _you became someone who belongs here_. He doesn’t allow himself to even think the words _please stay,_ even though they sit at the edge of his tongue and right behind his teeth.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because it’s the only thing he can say.

Viktor smiles, eyes lidded. “That’s my little champion,” he murmurs, and leans in.

Yuuri goes stiff. Even after all this time, getting accustomed to Viktor’s touchiness, he still flinches at intimacy. Viktor’s cheek brushes his and then it’s the press of his lips, firm against Yuuri’s cheek. He holds the kiss for a long beat, then pulls back.

Yuuri is sure he’s supposed to say something, but his mind is replaying over and over the soft noise Viktor had made when he pulled away, and he misses his moment.

“Yuuri! Katsuki Yuuri!” –The voice of a reporter looking to interview him again.

_No. Not yet._

“Ah,” Viktor says, leaning away from Yuuri.

_No, please._

“Your adoring public is calling for you,” Viktor says, laughing. “I shouldn’t steal you away for myself, as much as I’d like to.”

 _Don’t go_.

And then, the tilt of his head, the shrug of his shoulder. “You’ll always be my star pupil, dearest. I look forward to watching what you become.”

He’s gone into the night, replaced by a trio of reporters from Kyoto looking for his reaction to the Grand Prix Final victory for their station. Yuuri looks from person to person, and for the first time, he’s speechless because he has too much to say.

Yuuri doesn’t say:

_If I were a braver man, I would have asked you to stay. If I were a braver man, I would have **demanded** you stay. I would have pulled you into my arms and held you there, because god damn, I just got you—how could I let you go so easily? I would let the feelings in my heart pour out, starting from the moment I saw you on television, your head thrown back and long hair whipping at your back, so in love with the ice that you made me fall a little in love, too. I’ll tell you about Vicchan, how I knew her name even before I saw her. I would tell you about the first night you were here, when I couldn’t sleep because I could swear I heard you shift and breathe in the other room and I didn’t want to miss a second of it._

_I would tell you how I fell for you, long and slow, the way it should be. How every time you touched me you drew me in closer, how the fear of losing you gave me courage, how your words strengthened me, how I’ve carved them into my heart. I would tell you about dancing with you and how it feels, to have the other half of your soul at your side, how synchronicity feels like coming home, how moving the ways you tell me to is my Eros and my Agape, every form of love I’ve ever dared to feel._

_If I were a braver man, I would have told you all that and I would have kissed you. And kissed you and kissed you, the way lovers do, the way I’ve dreamed of. And if it took every part of my body and soul to make you stay, I would sacrifice it._

Instead, Yuuri says: “I owe all my success to my coach, Viktor Nikiforov,” and he lets him go.

 

 _I couldn’t help but ask_  
_For you to say it all again._  
_I tried to write it down_  
_But I could never find a pen._  
_I’d give anything to hear_  
_You say it one more time,_  
_That the universe was made_  
_Just to be seen by my eyes._


End file.
